I woke up as usual. As I opened my eyes, my raging thirst hit me. As I dressed, Thirst followed me. I do my daily chores, I’m still thirsty, and I hate every second. We tried moving, maybe once or twice, but there is no water. The hot climate dries up everything our happiness, our hydration. Two of my brothers have already died of dehydration. The heat has dried up our family, our hopes and dreams too.
Perhaps it was about midday when the ‘clanking’ noise started. Everything and everyone stopped to listen to the noise. Suddenly the ‘clanking’ stopped and this abrupt gush of sweet, sweet water burst out of the parched ground. It was beautiful, a miracle. Cheering, Praising, singing we all ran forward, our pots, bowls, buckets, and cups pushed forward, eager for their share of the treasured water. Even when the sun started to set, children still played in the puddles of silver, mothers had to come from their huts to retrieve their offspring so they could eat. There wasn’t a sad face in the entire village. We were happy.
I knew it wouldn’t last; the plumbers came and fixed the burst pipe. Children’s skins aren’t so beautiful anymore. They are dry and cracked. As if my thirst had went on holiday, it came back to terrorize me again. The water had been taken away, our happiness, our voices and our dancing feet taken too. I heard a child ask their mother “Where’s the water gone?” and all the woman could answer with was a small shake of her weary head. She was too thirsty to even speak.
Now as before, Thirst bids me Good morning and bids me Good night.
